maybe this is healing

and it's not what I thought it would look like, but I'm ready #withdrawalwarrior

Maybe healing is waking up one day and feeling weird in a way you can’t put your finger on, and halfway through the day you realize it’s because the internal tremors have stopped. They’re just gone. And as you sit there searching the “no-fly zone” inside you for the buzzing sensation that has plagued your existence 24/7 these last 16 months, all you feel is sweet stillness. And you realize you’re finally able to be in your body without fear, and you’re so fucking proud of yourself that it doesn’t really bother you when the tremors come back that night, in a slightly different place.

Maybe healing is making your first phone call in months, because no one’s gonna do it for you, and you can’t keep avoiding healthcare forever. And it’s hard, but maybe not quite as hard as you thought. And when the receptionist gets judgy about how you haven’t had a PCP since 2024, your response includes the words medical trauma, and you tell her she will have to find a way to go off-script with the standard intake procedure if she wants you to show up for the appointment. And she actually does what you need, and for once you aren’t getting all sweary or yelling or crying or freezing or giving up. And you make the appointment, thank her, and end the call, just like a normal person.

Maybe healing is starting to engage with your new community. And before you know it, you’ve made plans to meet new people, to try new things, to go to new places. And you’re absolutely fucking terrified and don’t yet trust that you can reliably show up as a version of a person anyone wants to be around for too long, because you can’t stop talking, usually about psych med withdrawal and prescribed harm. And you can barely answer basic questions about who you even are, where you came from, what you do, and you aren’t sure how you could possibly ever let anyone in again... But you’re brave, and you do it anyway. And it’s not as hard as you expected, and the experience leaves you with a feeling that reminds you of the joy you used to feel, around people. So you make more plans.

Maybe healing is experiencing what might be your first true window, when the symptoms gently ebb away, unannounced, for most of a day. And it doesn’t make any sense, but you resist the impulse to figure it out, to solve the puzzle of why. And you decide to just be in the moment with it and marvel at how it feels––being a body with little to no pain/tingling/nausea/constant buzzing sensation inside/tachycardia/foggy brain/bone-deep fatigue. And you realize you finally understand what it means when they say healing isn’t linear. And you trust there will be more windows, in time.

Maybe healing is summoning all your courage and finally reaching back out, because the universe had told you the stories you had been telling yourself weren’t true. And to your surprise and shock, they write back within a few hours. And it doesn’t mean you don’t still cry at night when you look out at the stars, but the tears feel different now. And it feels good to soften again, to feel the love you thought you had lost flowing through you again. And you know that whatever happens, whichever way this goes, you will be okay.

Maybe healing is looking out your window and seeing the deer tracks in the snow, the sun setting behind the trees, and your heart suddenly bursts open with this inexplicable wonderment. And you bundle up and rush outside to breathe in the winter air, the fading light, all this natural beauty around you. And the selfie you take to remember that moment forever doesn’t exactly capture the quiet beauty of the sky, the colors all glowing and gorgeous. But later you see that it captured the essence of the person you are becoming: colorful. Glowing. Gorgeous.

And all over her face is this new peace, and hope, and trust in the universe, and unwavering belief that better days are just ahead.

And she’s ready, y’all.

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